Burning Bright
by Avaril
Summary: Other characters featured as well. Crossover between Fahrenheit 451 and LOTR...some slash alluded to between Erestor and Glorfindel..PLS Read and Review, feedback always welcome, thanks.
1. Chapter 1

**Burning Bright**

First part of the Fahrenheit 451/LOTR crossover

Characters: F-451: Clarisse, Montag; LOTR: Erestor, Glorfindel (and other minor Characters)

Rating: pg-13, later chapter Nc-17 (NC-17 version will be archived somewhere else)

Warnings: Violence against BOOKS, reference to suicide, graphic sex later.

Disclaimer: this is so not mine…Tolkien, Bradbury, and Papa Roach own it all…

Summary: Twisted plot bunny came to me as I was reading the Ray Bradbury story for the third time…

Notes: Unfortunately, in order to really understand this, you must read Fahrenheit 451 (which if you haven't, you are really missing out!) However, just incase, I will briefly explain Bradbury's characters. (VERY overly simplified!)

_Montag/ Guy Montag_ – he is a fireman, as in a man who STARTS fires. In the futuristic setting of the story, books are outlawed, and are burned whenever discovered. It is not the books themselves that are considered the evil, but the thought that is produced…people thinking for themselves.

_Clarisse_ – is the young girl (turned Elf for my story) who shows Montag what it means to think and feel. She dies shortly after Montag meets her, before he realizes just what a person like her means, and how much he is attached to her (though in the Bradbury story it is more of an intellectual thing, I suppose, than the sexual attraction I will have in this story…)

_Mildred _– Montag freak wife who is already lost to the futuristic world and cannot think for herself.

_Beatty _– Captain of Montag's firehouse. He is a real hard-ass and unfeeling, especially when the woman burns herself with her books.

_Faber_- an old English professor (yes, yes…see the LOTR connection later…;) ) who helps Montag.

I don't want to give too many spoilers to the actually book in case you haven't read it, though I will be explaining some of the details in this story.

Somewhere beyond happiness and sadness  
I need to calculate  
What creates my own madness

(Papa Roach, Getting Away with Murder)

_And, then, she was gone…and there were vague stirrings of dis-ease in him…_

"Where have you been?"

Frozen to the stair, she raised her chin to face eye to eye the elf above her. Hard dark eyes met hers, disapproval emanating from his whole being.

"I do not like to repeat myself." His soft voice echoed in the staircase, causing her to shiver under his gaze.

"Does it matter?" She whispered, trying to block what she wished not to say. Casting her eyes to the floor, she turned to walk back down.

As she turned, the rustling of her clothing stirred the air, and the scent of burnt cloth mixed with kerosene assailed his keen elven senses. Allowing himself to look across her form, he barely whispered out,

"Stop."

She stopped, but did not turned toward him, as he moved closer to her. Walking around her, he thoroughly studied her dress. As he had suspected, her dress was burnt in several spots and reeked of the flammable substance. He reached out and fingered a bit of the material, rubbing the charred bits against his fingers, leaving smudges on the tips.

"Explain." He dropped the fabric and crossed his arms expectantly, waiting for her reply.

"Ada…" she whispered softly and respectfully, "Ada, I cannot." She raised her head, and looked into his relentless eyes, her own sad but dry. Her expression told him that she would not tell him, once again.

Sighing, he dropped his arms to his side, and walked away. He was tired of this. He was tired of her disappearances. Tired of her lack of explanations. Tired of the smell.

Leaving her in the hallway, he walked quickly to his rooms. Reaching for the handle, he heard a voice behind him.

"Erestor."

The elf turned to face his dearest friend Glorfindel. Neither spoke. Moments passed.

Finally Glorfindel spoke, as though they had had a deep and long conversation.

"I shall speak with her."

Glorfindel smiled at the dark-haired elf. Erestor cast him a baleful look as he entered the room, closing the door silently.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, he swiftly made his way to her room. Pausing before the door, he drew in a deep breath, slowly exhaling as he formulated his words in his head. Knocking slowly and deliberately, he waited for the sound of rustling cloth before he spoke, of bedclothes being cast off.

"Are you awake? It is Uncle Fin." He leaned his head in against the hardwood of the door, listening intently for the annoyed sigh he expected. He felt, rather than heard, silent footsteps against the floor before he felt the door give way.

"What do you want?" She curtly addressed him, eyeing him intently.

"I wish to speak with you…"

"If it is about adar…" she cut him off, beginning to close the door against him. However, as the former Balrog slayer, he easily pushed inside.

"Yes, in fact it is about your adar. The elf is worried sick about you, not that he would ever tell you that." Glorfindel reached down to stroke her cheek, but she turned just as he was about to touch her. Walking back to her bed, she bit back a retort and crawled back beneath her covers.

Angered by her actions, Glorfindel shut his eyes for a moment then approached her bed. She had picked up a book off the bedside table, and had returned to her reading. She actively ignored his presence.

"What is this that you read?"

Silence. Flip of the page. More silence.

She looked just like her father, sitting in the bed, flipping the pages, lost in her thoughts.

Flip. Flip. Silence.

Glorfindel craned his neck to see the front cover. It was bound in shiny orange-red paper, with a picture printed on the front. A man made of paper with print on it stood casting his eyes down shamefully, as flames swirled and danced about him.

She wasn't merely ignoring him. Watching her eyes scan across the page, he could see that she was entirely engrossed. Dancing across the page, her inky eyes sparkled as they moved back and forth, pausing occasionally to reread a section, sentence, or word.

"What is it about?"

She didn't pause, "A man."

"A man? A man made of printing?" Glorfindel desperately wanted to reach the elleth.

Sighing irritably, she marked her place and closed the book, setting it in her lap and folding her hands over it.

"Yes, and no. It is about a man, but he is not made of printing."

"Then tell me, sweet one, what is it about?" Glorfindel sat on the bed beside her, again reaching out to touch her, and this time she did not pull away. She allowed herself to relax against the feel of his rough palm against her cheek, and she exhaled.

"It is about a man, who…" she waited a moment as if trying to recall what she had read moments before. "About a man who burns books."

-------------------------

_"'Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.'"_

"_Enough of that!…Where are they?"_

"That is all she said?" Erestor leaned back into the soft leather of his study chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the dark wood of his desk.

"I can't get her to speak of what is happening to her," Glorfindel mimicked Erestor's position on the couch. "I think the only way to find out what is happening is to have someone watching her at all times. Then we will be able to see where she goes when she disappears…"

Erestor's ears twitched, as he sat up straight, "and perhaps have someone follow her there?" he asked hopefully.

Glorfindel blinked a couple times at his friend, "That is supposing that where ever she is going is some place one will want to follow her to."

Sighing, the advisor collapsed back against his chair, a distressed look on his face.

"Fin, three weeks…it has been three weeks since her first disappearance! And now, every night she returns at two, covered in the stench of kerosene and fire." He paused, boring holes into the ceiling with his eyes. "What was the name of the book again?"

"Fahrenheit 451."

Erestor stood and looked out his window at the Falls of Imladris, his hands clasped behind him. The sound of water cascading over rock soothed him even in his most tortured moments. And this elleth tortured him beyond all.

He allowed his mind to wander to the events of the past year.

She had arrived on their doorstep, her hand held tightly by Elrond's. His Lord had brought her to him. Cast her needs upon him. She was a special case, he had been told. Watch over her, he had been commanded.

She is your daughter.

Daughter? This was not what he had expected. In fact he could not remember any events in his past that would have lead to such a…consequence. Consequence; that is how he had referred to her at the time. A callous way to refer to the elleth that he had grown to love as his child.

Wind blew through the open window, causing his hair to flutter across his face. A few strands caught in his eyelashes. Reaching up, he pulled at the stray strands whilst pulling him back to the present situation.

"I want that book. Glorfindel, I want you to bring it back. Bring it back to me." He turned and faced his friend who still lounged on the couch.

"I know what I said to you, but do you really think it might have something to do with her wanderings in the night?" Glorfindel cocked an eye-brow at Erestor in question.

"I know all of the books ever created on Arda, and this is not one of them." His voice grew cold, "And I want it, in my possession. I want to see what has cursed my daughter to this pitiful existence."

She stood before the thresh-hold book in hand. He waited for her on the other side, not that he understood why. She played the part so well.

_Clarisse, where are you?_ She heard his voice, and she shut her eyes, allowing her foot to cross into the swirling mass of cloud.

_Clarisse, I need you! I need you…I am suffocating._ Smoke caused her eyes to water as she fought her way through, fits of coughing overcoming her.

-------------

_A book lit, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim, wavering light, a page hung open and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon._

Glorfindel watched as Clarisse disappeared into the misty cloud in her room. The smell of smoke and kerosene overwhelmed his sensitive senses, and he had to cover his mouth and force himself to continue watching as his eyes watered painfully.

The pages of the book lay fluttering long after the cloud had retreated back into it. His eyes were wide with horror. She had disappeared into the book. It was disturbing, the vacant look in her eyes, the satisfied smile across her lips.

Cautiously he crossed the room and picked up the book. Bringing it to his nose, he sniffed it. Nothing. It smelled like paper. Yet the moments the cloud had been there, it smelt as if the room was burning. In fact, it had felt warmer, as if the fire was in the room itself.

"Is that the book?"

Startled, Glorfindel dropped the book. Turning, he glared at Erestor. He bent and picked up the book, and crossed the room. Slamming the book against the advisor's chest, he stared past him. Out through the hall, into the night.

He hand lingered, holding the book in place barely by his fingertips.

"She is in there. Be careful what you read." Glorfindel forced eye contact with him. "I would want nothing to do with this, if she were not my niece." He removed his hand; Erestor caught the book as it fell.

-----------------

_The woman on the porch reached out with contempt to them all, and struck the kitchen match against the railing._

Erestor blinked the sleep away from his eyes, the grittiness of overtiredness making his eyes itch.

He had watched her burn.

This story horrified him, as he read of Guy Montag, the fireman. The fireman who burned books.

What horrified him even more was his daughter's name clearly written on the pages.

Like the man in the book, he clutched the volume to himself, as if it were more precious than all the jewels of Moria.

He could read no further. The book ended, with dozens of blank pages left. Left to be written.

Rolling over, he blew the light out, setting the book on the table. He lay on his back, staring into the darkness.

She was in there, like Glorfindel had said. And like Glorfindel had mentioned, she would return at two.

Sitting up, he reached for the book. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he slid his feet to the floor and walked to the middle of his room. Flipping the pages to the end of the written passages, he left the book open on the floor. Returning to his bed, he leaned against the headboard, watching carefully, waiting till she would return.

From her position behind the trees, Clarisse stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she watched the woman ignite the kerosene soaked books around her. Her stomach knotted and threatened to empty itself of its contents right then. Gulping for air, she quelled the nausea, and turned to face the men returning to the truck.

He was with them.

But she had seen his hesitation, his shock and horror at what she did. She had seen him tuck the book within his clothing, knowing full well the consequences of his actions if he were to be caught.

She had even caught a glimpse of the title.

Clarisse wanted to rush out, to grab him by the shoulders. To tell him that he could come with her, and that all would be fine. But, she resisted, knowing full well that he returned to his home, to his wife.

Here she was no more than a girl, a young girl with a purpose of showing him a different life. Nothing more. And now her part was over.

The book said so.

Erestor watched the pages flutter to life with avid interest, as the cloud swirled up filling the room with the foul stench. His eyes widened further as Clarisse stepped out of the cloud, lost in her thoughts and unawares as to where she had arrived.

Pausing for a moment, she cast her eyes about the room, realization of where she was hitting her like ice water.

"Adar!" She cried out, as she jerked her body to face his direction.

"Clarisse," he whispered.

"Ada, I…"

"…Nothing, explain nothing…" he interrupted her. "I know all that has happened. And I know that your part is over."

"No, ada, it can't be…" she sat unseeing on the foot of his bed, her arms clutching her body. Crawling to her, he engulfed her in his warm arms, seeking to comfort her. "I know I died, but I must return!" She cried in exasperation against his chest.

Erestor stroked her hair, murmuring words of comfort into her ears. "I doubt you could return…if your part is over."

"I would give anything, anything for one night…" she trailed off. Erestor pulled her back from him, and peered into her eyes.

"What do you mean, Clarisse?" His eyes full of question, he hoped it was not what he thought.

Blushing, she turned from him, afraid of what he might think.

"Tell me, Clarisse…" he voice grew dangerously low, a tone that she knew meant she must answer.

"One night of comfort. One night to ease his torment, father."


	2. Chapter 2

**Burning Bright**

**FEEDBACK DESIRED AND APPRECIATED (non-flaming yet critical reviews are ALWAYS welcome, no matter who you are…;) )**

Second part of the Fahrenheit 451/LOTR crossover

Characters: F-451: Clarisse, Montag; LOTR: Erestor, Glorfindel…

Rating: PG-13, later chapter NC-17…

Betas: AMY –**pounce-** and KATH –glomp- THANKS!!!

Warnings: Violence against BOOKS, reference to suicide, graphic sex later.

Disclaimer: this is so not mine…Tolkien, Bradbury, and Queens of the Stone Age own everything.

Summary: Twisted plot bunny came to me as I was reading the Ray Bradbury story for the third time…

Are quotes from Fahrenheit 451 and ROTK.

The song he hears in his mind is from the featured song "Mosquito Song".

Also, I just noticed, though I have read it few times now…:P, that the title of this fic is the same as Bradbury's foreword to the book. So I give him some credit for the inspiration for the title, though it was unintentional…thanks.

AN:Explanation of a couple events in the Bradbury book for purposes of understanding this part.

Mildred tried to kill herself, as in the quote about moonstones (ie sleeping pills). After her 'death' Montag really re-evaluates their relationship, or lack thereof and doesn't really consider her his wife anymore…

Clarisse is (in the book) killed by speeding teens…I will deal with that in a later chapter…

Beatty, his fire-captain, knows that Montag is hoarding books, and has paid a 'friendly visit' on him. However, it is a set up. But you don't know this till after the chapter I am including in this part.

The family are people from a 'tv' show that appears on three of the walls of their parlour, and Mildred can interact with them like she is on the show with them…

Montag and Mildred have a fight about the books he has been hoarding, and she tells him to turn them in to Beatty so that they can continue with their normal life. The point in this part is when Montag 'says' he is going to return the book he took from the dead woman's house (which is the bible in the book, but Return of the King for my purposes…) Instead he is planning to visit a man, Faber, about having the book duplicated before he turns in the original…

We end this second part on Montag's lawn before he sets off to Faber's…

_Now I know the sun is hot  
Mosquitoes come and suck your blood  
Leave you there all alone  
Just skin and bone_

_When you walk among the trees  
Listening to the leaves  
The further I go the less I know, the less I know_

_  
Where will you run?  
Where will you hide?  
Lullaby's to paralyze_

_(Mosquito Song, Queens of the Stone Age)_

_Two moonstones looked up at him in the light of his small hand-held fire; two pale moonstones buried in a creek of clear water over which the life of the world ran, not touching them._

Montag looked at his wife. His wife?

Mildred seemed like a stranger. He couldn't understand her. She was speaking, but it was garbled.

"What did you say?" He questioned, hoping that if she repeated herself, he would understand.

Garble. Static. Mumble. Her mouth opened and shut like a fish gasping for air, but he could not understand her words.

For fuck's sake, he couldn't even remember where they had met. Who was this woman? She could not be his _wife!_ She had died; all those tiny pills, swallowed down. He didn't know this woman…

Mildred had turned from him in frustration and had returned to watching the walls. Unfamiliar people walked across their walls, speaking, shouting to the soundtrack of thunderous music. His head grew dizzy, and pressing his palms to his ears, he left the room. Mildred never turned or noticed.

Montag walked to his room and sat upon his bed, staring at her pristine side. Her cold bed.

Sighing, he stretched his body along the length of the bed, propping his hands behind his head. Closing his eyes, he snaked his hand under the pillow to feel the leather-bound volume there.

Soft. Hard. Old. Worn. Illegal.

Peeking through one eye, he checked to make sure she did not enter, and he brought the book out. Opening the book, he allowed the pages to fall open at their will. Resting his finger on the exposed page, he trailed his finger down till he reached a set of italics.

He mouthed the words as he read:

'_To the sea, to the sea! The white gulls are crying,_

_The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.'_

He hadn't shown her yet, his cache hidden away, behind the metal sheeting, behind the wall. Montag could already imagine her reaction. But it was time he did. He slid the book back under the pillow.

_He kept moving his hand and dropping books, small ones, fairly large ones, yellow, red, green ones. When he was done he looked down upon some twenty books lying at his wife's feet._

Stolen, every one of them. He had taken them from houses as they were burnt. Innocent victims rescued while the fires consumed their owners. He remembered watching the woman. More than that, he remembered his reflection in her eyes. His blackened uniform and emblem, his smoky face, all returned to him from her point-of-view. Fire reflected off him in her eyes.

Mildred fell apart. She tried to incinerate one, shrieking about the destruction of their home. Captain Beatty would return and burn it down. He would find them out, and he would come with his kerosene hose and a match.

The 'family' would burn; the damned family that lived on her walls, in her imagination. No, not imagination. That would be giving her the credit of having her own mind.

----------------------------------

_No front porches…that was the wrong kind of social life. People talked too much. And they had time to think._

Clarisse sat in her father's study, her eyes glued to the rows and rows of volumes adorning the shelves. She was curled into a ball, her knees tucked up under her chin as she chewed a piece of chestnut hair.

Click. Creak.

The door opened, and shut softly.

"Clarisse?" A deep voice broke her thoughts.

"What would you do without your books? What would you do if you weren't allowed to think?" She continued to contemplate the books lining walls.

Erestor blinked a couple times before he comprehended her words.

"Clarisse? What do you mean?" He had not been able to get her to get rid of the book.

He stood behind her, watching her as she uncurled her body from the couch and stood. His hands itched to hold her, comfort her.

She seemed possessed.

As she stood, he gasped at the sight of her. She seemed a ghost, a shell of her former self. Dressed in white, shimmering gossamer, a deathly contrast to her dark hair and eyes. Gone was the smiling Clarisse of five weeks before. He should have been prepared; he knew that she was slipping deeper and deeper into the dark world of what she read. Nay, she did not merely read it; she was consumed by it.

Literally.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head, willing that night away in his mind. He did not want to remember watching her appear out of the book. And then her confession; she wanted to give him one night of comfort.

Erestor dreaded knowing the meaning of her statement. He prayed the Valar would not grant her wish.

She had walked to the shelves and was pulling off an ancient volume of history. He could scarce make out the title from his angle, but he knew the book well. It was about Luthien and Beren.

"This, Ada." She turned, holding book open and out to him, her fingers marking a passage on the page. "It is not the most significant; just a book of poetry dedicated to the star-crossed lovers. Yet, could you stand by and watch it die?"

"No." His voice barely a whisper.

"Could you hold the torch as it is put to the flame?" The look of horror that crossed his face caused her to smile sadly at the book as she closed it. "Father, I must see him again. I want to bring him here; show him all this." She arced her arm out, indicating the volumes behind her as she locked her eyes with his. "Let him drink his fill of our waters…"

Despite all his years, he could not fathom such a thing. His line of sight followed her delicate fingers. He was horrified by the implications of her words.

Truth be told, he had seen books eaten by fire, but not for the purpose of repression. Humans, desperate for warmth during the snows of winter; houses burning due to some accident. Yes, he'd seen books burn, but not for malice nor for purposeful ignorance.

His eyes burned as imaginary flames licked at the edges of his library. They widened as the fire grew into a humanoid figure, tall and lean. It reached out with burning fingers, pulling volumes from the shelves, shoving them down its fiery throat.

Clarisse watched her father's appalled and frightened expression, her heart wrenching as she knew what he imagined.

"And in that world, you say, there are no libraries? There are no books? No original thought?"

She shook her head no sadly.

"And this man willingly ignited such fiery hells?"

She nodded yes sadly.

"He allowed that woman to burn, and you saw it?" His expression hardened.

"Adar," she choked.

"Erestor," a hand clasped down on his shoulder. Glorfindel caught Clarisse's eyes. "Clarisse."

Erestor turned to regard his friend, torn from his stupor. Glorfindel walked past them, carrying the cursed book in his hand. Both father and daughter's eyes locked on the book, as he opened it and placed it on the desk in the center of the room. Clarisse rushed to her uncle's side and peered at the finger-marked page.

_"But Clarisse's favorite subject wasn't herself. It was everyone else, and me. She was the first person in a good many years I've really liked. She was the first person I can remember who looked straight at me as if I counted." He lifted the two books. "These men have been dead a long time, but I know their words point, one way or another, to Clarisse."_

----------------------------

_"Millie? Does the White Clown love you?"_

_No answer._

"_Millie, does—" he licked his lips—"does your 'family' love you, love you _very _much, love you with all their heart and soul, Millie?"_

The door shut behind him, closing with a click. Scrape of metal against metal, and the snapping of the lock as it fell into place. He leaned against it, his eyes closed and head bent, a torrent of thoughts streaming through his mind.

Her friends would come over this night, and they would watch the mindless drivel of the parlor walls. She would be nervous, wondering if her friends would smell the paper and ink sitting inches from them behind their walls. But she would not know where he was, what he was doing in the dark of the night.

Faber. That old professor from a year back. He would know what to do; he would be able to explain away the words in the book he clutched to his body.

_"Who is more important, me or that Bible?"_

A day, even hours earlier, he would have said her; but that was no longer the case. He had promised to turn the book in to Beatty. The captain of the Firemen probably knew that Montag had the book and, if he didn't turn it in, would come to the house and sniff it out himself.

But Montag had no intention of just handing the book over. First he would have them duplicated, and Faber would know how to have that done. He pulled it out of his jacket and studied the cover again. Flipped through the pages.

Flip. Flip. Read. Flip. Flip.

They are not real; they have no meaning. He closed his eyes against the characters of the book.

An unknown song filled his head. Violin, piano. Minor key. Softly it drifted through his mind. So different it was from the harsh electronic sounds of the parlor walls, of her 'family'. He had never heard anything of the like. It was real. Natural. What did that mean? Natural? Opening his eyes, he looked down at the book in frustration. Words, written, turned his world upside down.

Then he threw it. It landed open, pages fluttering in the wind, frantic wings of a buzzing mosquito.

What wind, he thought in question. It was a still day, sunny and bright with no breeze. But there was no sun now, and it looked as if in the matter of seconds the world had changed.

Bombers zipped through the sky, the war continuing above him despite his forced detachment. Their roaring engines mingled with the unexpected rolling thunder. Clouds moved across the heavens, gray and heavily laden with moisture, threatening to spill their innards on the hapless beings below.

He pulled his body from the door. No porch to protect him from the rain, but did he really want protection? The first drops hit his face. They dotted the flapping pages, soaking them.

He angled his face upward, feeling for the first time the rain. Feeling it, not escaping it with an umbrella separating him from the water an attempt to protect his body from its cold wetness. Once again he shut his eyes, opening his mouth to taste the liquid. Landing on his tongue, the drops slide down his throat, re-starting the beautiful music of earlier. Guitar mingled with the violin and piano.

A part from the book entered his mind.

_'Green are those fields in the songs of my people; but they were dark then, grey wastes in the blackness before us. And over the wide land, trampling unheeded the grass and the flowers, we hunted our foes through a day and a night…'_

Raising his hands, he watched his cupped palms fill with water, feeling it stream down the sleeves of his jacket. The foreign sensation caused him to shiver involuntarily.

We have no songs to remind us of what existed before our 'blackness', he thought bitterly before splashing himself with the collected water. His black hair curled into ringlets against his head; drops formed on his lashes, dripping into his eyes. He did not blink them away, wanting to experience the stinging. He remembered the book on the lawn and rubbed the water from his eyes so that he could see.

It was ruined. He bent to collect it, but recoiled as electricity coursed through his hand. Shocked, he blinked in confusion and reached out again. This time he did not pull away as the current pulsed into him. It was an odd feeling. But what had she said to him?

_"Have you ever smelled old leaves? Don't they smell like cinnamon? Here. Smell."_

Feel. Touch. Experience. Stop.

She had insinuated as much. Take a moment, stop and feel the world around him.

And now, in the rain, he felt. He felt the shivering cold of his shirt clinging to his wet torso. Rivulets of rain down the back of his neck, his face, his chest. The power of electricity. He looked up in question; he was not being struck by lightening. Looking back down at the book, he noticed the billowing cloud appearing for the rain-destroyed pages. The rain could not dispel it, disintegrate it, dissolved it…

Two hands of smoke formed, feminine and slender, delicate; they beckoned him, a ghostly finger running along his cheek. He felt its soft touch.

Follow me. Come with me. A voice in his head.

She awaits you. He could not resist. He held out his hand, and the smoke hand interlocked its fingers with his, pulling him forward.


	3. Chapter 3

**Burning Bright**

**FEEDBACK DESIRED AND APPRECIATED (non-flaming yet critical reviews are ALWAYS welcome, no matter who you are…;) )**

**Third part of the Fahrenheit 451/LOTR crossover**

**Characters: F-451: Clarisse, Montag; LOTR: Erestor, Glorfindel, Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir; OMC: Celegrod**

**Rating: PG-13, later chapter NC-17…**

**Warnings: Violence against BOOKS, reference to suicide, graphic sex later.**

**Disclaimer: this is so not mine…Tolkien, Bradbury, and Ozzy own everything.**

**Summary: Twisted plot bunny came to me as I was reading the Ray Bradbury story for the third time…**

**Are quotes from Fahrenheit 451 and Tolkien. **

**-mind speak-**

In the book, Clarisse lived in the house next to Montag for the first half of the book. She lived there with her uncle…the whole family disappeared at some point after her death. Montag believes that they were arrested and removed.

center 

Don't tell me stories 'cause yesterday's glories

Have gone away, so far away

I've heard it said there's a light up ahead

Lord I hope and pray I'm here to stay

(Ozzy Osbourne)

/center 

"All right, you can come out now!"

Montag stepped back in the shadows.

"It's all right," the voice said. "You're welcome here."

Montag opened his eyes only to be blinded by the glare of the sun. Placing his hand over his eyes, he shielded them enough to look around. He was on his back…in the middle of a grassy plain.

What?

He sat up quickly, becoming dizzy by his action. With his left hand he felt the grass, allowing his fingers to feel each blade. With his right hand he covered his eyes so that his movements were blind. Only his nerve-endings would 'see' where he was. A burr pricked his finger, and he brought it to his face and peered at it with morbid fascination.

There it hung by one little needle to his skin, a small droplet of blood forming around the intrusion. He could not tear his eyes away, the pain drawing his attention. Was this feeling?

Finally, his eyes roamed the area for a brief moment. He must have wandered off, but to where? Here there was no smog or the sound of cars speeding by, nor the sight of billboards marring the scenery.

His head spun, and he wearily grasped it between his hands, hoping to still it. Opening one eye, he looked back around him. He could see mountains in one direction, forest in another, and a field of insane greenness around him.

And a fire…

Some very tall slender beings, with long black hair, sat around the fire. And they were looking at him, motioning for him to join them.

Confused, Montag did not move, but eyed them warily as both parties cautiously watched the other. One of the beings stood, and seeming to not touch the ground, glided over to him. As it stopped a few feet away, Montag could see its full height and figure.

Male or female, he could not tell, but it was tall, perhaps seven feet. Dressed in buff colored, soft leather trousers and shirt, the creature seemed more surreal and soft than anything in the city. Skin as white as stone caused him to shiver, never having seen something so pure in his life.

Except for Clarisse.

"Why are you here, human?" The being did not question, more than demand the answer. Coal black hair framed its face, hanging to its waist. Unsure as to how to answer, not really knowing the answer himself, Montag stared up from his position on the ground.

"Why are you here, human?" Another being the mirror image of the first joined them, asking the exact same question, though more gently. Their musical voices made it difficult to discern the sex of either one.

And they glowed, or seemed to in the evening sun, a bright golden aura surrounding them.

"I-I-I d-don't know…" Montag finally stammered out. "I m-must be l-l-lost…"

They exchanged sympathetic looks, and then extended one hand each to him.

"Do not fear us…"

"…We will do you no harm."

Warm, muscular hands grasped each of his and pulled him on to his feet. The effortless ease with which they pulled him up was evidence of how powerful their bodies were. Smiling gently at him, they made Montag feel helpless and childlike as they guided him to the fireside.

Sitting at the fire was another being, as striking and powerful looking as the first two. Inky, bottomless eyes met his as he eased himself down next to the fire. The dancing flames caught his attention, and he quickly forgot the others as he became entranced by its orange beauty.

It was not burning, it was warming.

This fire was not destructive, but warmed him to the bones. Snap. Pop. Crack. Sizzle. The flames took on the forms of dancing people, taunting him to join them. Join them in death like so many he had seen before. Montag could not tear his eyes away from the glowing embers, the light they gave off never still.

-Brother, watch. He seems in awe of the fire…- Elladan met his brother's eyes across the campfire, nodding discreetly to the human beside him. Montag's face glowed with the heat, magnified in its orange hue by the setting sun, and impending darkness.

-Who is this man? He seems genuinely confused about being here…- Elrohir responded, watching the man. The man was young, he surmised, perhaps in his thirties. His curly black hair was peppered with strands of gray, and the lines of age already lightly crossed his face. Despite his feeble appearance when they found him, he seemed to be in prime health from what they had felt of him when they brought him to the camp circle. Elrohir let his gaze roam over the unusual garb of the man. -He wears the clothes of none I have ever met…-

Montag wore his fireman jumpsuit, complete with Salamander and Phoenix emblazoned over his heart. A brown leather jacket with a zipper-front kept him warm. The gray stains of thousands of smoking books covered him, as did the smell of kerosene.

He looked up and followed the glowing sparks of the fire as they flew up and disappeared into the night sky. This act brought the stars to his attention. The stars. Oblivious of the elves sitting around him, Montag's eyes flitted from one star to another, tracing the outlines of the constellations.

Where was he? The last thing he remembered was the rain. And the smoke leading him into the book… Into the book?

Montag snapped out of his daze and whipped his stare around to each figure before him. Who the hell were these people?

All eyes were still on him, though they ate while they watched him. The smell of roasted meat reminded him that he had skipped lunch earlier that day. The being next to him noticed him staring at the meat in his hand.

"Would you like some, human?" The angelic voice soothed him, relaxed him. He nodded. Elladan reached to the fire with his long knife, cutting a hunk from the roasting bird. Montag took it gratefully. However, he'd never eaten meat cooked in such a manner. Everything in the city came pre-cooked, and all they had to do was warm it. This was freshly killed and roasted.

And it smelled divine. After a moment's contemplation, Montag slowly bit into the juicy meat, savoring the flavor. Tearing off small pieces, he ate the rest slowly. The two identical elves lost themselves in watching him. He seemed like a child discovering something new.

When he spoke, he startled his companions.

"Where am I? You are nothing like I have seen before." I cannot truly be in a book! I must be in the forest surrounding the city…hit my head somehow…it is preposterous that I could actually enter a book…

"You are about ten miles from the elven city if Imladris," the other elf spoke. "We are on border patrol for the area." Montag looked to the speaker, taking in his angular features. Unlike the other two, this one had chestnut hair, but was equally pale.

It was not too surprising that this man did not know what they were. Many humans did not know of the elves, except through legend. Montag's confused expression was not lost on the elf across from him.

"Or Rivendell to you humans, only the elves really know it as Imladris," Elrohir quickly responded.

Montag's eyes opened very wide, as the familiar name crept through his mind. The wheels of his thoughts processed the name, pulling from what he remembered of the books he had skimmed through in fits of rebellion.

Rivendell. The ruined book mentioned such a place. And an Elven Lord…

"This is the city of Elrond?"

Elladan nodded yes, smiling as he replied, "Aye, and our father. I and my twin," he pointed to the elf across from him, "Elladan and Elrohir. And our companion is Celegrod."

"No…" Montag whispered softly.

"Yes," chuckled Elrohir, "we are two and the same…" He smiled broadly, figuring their reputation preceded them.

"NO." He said more forcefully, shaking his head. The elves frowned at him quizzically. "No…no, I mean, you are not real. You are just stories!" Montag began to mutter to himself, shaking his head erratically from time to time. He gripped his head in one hand, trying to steady it. His other hand curled in to a ball as in response to a throbbing migraine.

The elves looked at each and back at the muttering man, concern etched on their faces.

"We are not stories. I know that some humans have written legends and myths surrounding us, but we are not fantasies…"

Montag whipped his head up and in a flash grabbed Elladan by his collar, shaking the elf like a crazed man.

"You are NOT real!" He frantically spewed forth. "You can't be! In a matter of moments, Beatty will be driving by…he will see this book on the lawn and all of you will disappear! He will burn us all away!" He knocked Elladan on to his back, clinging to the elf's clothing, crouching on top of him. Elladan was too stunned for a moment to do anything.

Elrohir and Celegrod were not stunned and swiftly pulled out their knives. Celegrod, being closer, pulled the babbling man off of Elladan and held him at knifepoint.

"Who are you, human?" He growled, while Elrohir helped his brother up.

"And why do you speak such madness!?" Exclaimed Elrohir.

Defeat filled his eyes - or was it resignation - as Montag answered, "Montag. Guy Montag. And I only speak the truth. It seems I have gone mad, or I have truly entered into the book. Either way I suppose I am still mad."

Not sure of what to make of the man's words, Elladan motioned his brother over, while Celegrod kept a grip on Montag.

-We should alert Adar-…

-He'll know what to do with this man…- Elrohir finished.

----------------

Something the matter…?

Elrond flew down the hall to his advisor's suite. Pounding on the door, he bellowed…

"Erestor! Awake!"

The door creaked open, and Erestor stood momentarily shocked before his disheveled lord. Regaining his loss of composure at the sight of Elrond in his nightclothes and from being awakened from his reverie at a most unusual hour, the advisor bowed politely.

"My Lord Elrond, what do you wish?" He asked, blocking the doorway.

"The twins are on their way with a man…where is Clarisse?" Elrond ducked past Erestor. "Oh, good evening, Glorfindel…" He acknowledged Glorfindel's sleepy awakening form upon the couch. The golden elf stood and stretched, then bowed to Elrond.

"And the same to you, my lord." He replied as he paused at the door before exiting the room, leaving Erestor and Elrond alone.

Shutting the door, Erestor stood silently regarding his lord, folding his long hands within his robe. Elrond's deep rich brown eyes bore into his.

"You asked after Clarisse, what do you wish with her?" A father's concern was evident in his voice. "You said a man was coming with the twins…"

"Aye…" he started. "They described him to me, and I believe he is from the same land where she was born."

Erestor's whole body twitched slightly. He'd never been told any details of her former life. Of where she was born, where she'd come from…too many questions filled his mind. For a brief out-of-character moment, Erestor wished to shout and force Elrond to reveal all to him. But he held back.

Elrond reached for the door handle to leave, and Erestor placed his hand upon his, stopping him. "And what about them? Does Clarisse know this man?"

The lord looked up and gazed into Erestor's fearful eyes. Within them he saw the same love and devotion he held for his own children.

"She does…and I believe she is expecting him. He wears the sign of the Phoenix…"

Closing the door after Elrond, Erestor slid down the door to the floor. He hugged his knees to his chest, contemplating his lord's words. It can't be…her wish could not have come true…? The idea was simply inconceivable; it had to be some other man, perhaps an uncle or some other unknown relative.

Slowly he stood, gripping the handle of the door. For a moment he wished he'd burned her book, and ended this fiasco. But he reminded himself, this man might not be him…but he wears the Phoenix…the symbol of the firemen, as he'd read in the book himself.

Opening the door, he stared down the hall toward her rooms. Knowing the twins and their ability for swiftness, he figured he had about less than hour before they arrived. He started the journey to her room.

"Ada?" Clarisse blinked her eyes a couple times, as her Adar made his way into her room, waking her from her reverie.

"A man is coming…"

"The Valar have answered my prayers…" she whispered, her eyes wide and hopeful.

Silence echoed for a moment while Erestor watched his daughter become lost in her thoughts. A knocked disturbed their peace.

"Clarisse…Erestor." Came Glorfindel's muffled voice. The door opened before they could respond. Glorfindel entered first, followed shortly by Elrond and the twins. They must have started sooner than he'd thought, Erestor surmised watching the twins.

Behind them stood a man, shorter than the elves, but still tall for a human.

"Guy!" Clarisse leapt from her seat position on the bed to the frightened man cowering behind the male elves. The twins moved to the side as she flung her arms around Montag.

Surprised at seeing the girl…woman…elf…? Montag was truly confused. This was Clarisse…or was it?

"Clarisse?" Was all Montag could manage. It was the same dark hair, midnight eyes, yet she was different. For starters, she was not dead.


End file.
